


As the Romans Do

by Foxipaw



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4103203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxipaw/pseuds/Foxipaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa's people are conquered by the Roman army, and taken away as slaves. One barbarian leader means little to them and she is cast into the fighting pits as one more gladiator.</p><p>Clarke is the daughter of Rome's lead architect and head advisor. She attends the games out of civic duty to appear with her family, but the restricted life of a young noblewoman is starting to wear away at her. </p><p>After putting on a show the Roman populace won't soon forget, Lexa unknowingly endears herself to someone very important in the crowd... Someone who just happens to be looking for a new personal guard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A Roman AU! Gasp! This is theoretically going to be a multi-chapter event (length undetermined at this time) depending on the response this gets. What do you think, is it worth continuing? Let me know!

 

The Colosseum Pit – Midday – 115 A.D.

 

The sun hovered directly over arena, it's gaze cooking the sands until they burned at the bare soles of any who stood in once place too long. Even those fortunate enough to wear sandals understood it's brutal intent. Sweat, darkened with dirt and blood, dripped down their bodies. For Lexa, it had wormed it's way into the padding of her thin leather armor, perhaps purely to annoy her. Inside each of their heaving chests the combatants lungs burned with exhaustion. They could all taste the bloodlust in the air, supplied in great quantity by the voracious crowd.

They were there to die.

Lexa blinked away a bead of sweat before it could drip into her eyes. The grip on her short gladius tightened, and she sneered for the weapon's sake while surveying her surroundings. How was she was expected to fight with a weapon like  _this?_ She had used Roman weapons before, that was not the issue. This poor excuse for steel was better suited to pick her teeth than run a man through. The length of it's blade was scratched and notched, freckled with rust. Someone else's blood had dried near the hilt from a fight long ago, darker and gritty compared to it's more recent coating.

She found the master of revelries seated on a platform in the bottom tier of seats. One hand was worrying a hairless chin. She misliked the way his eyes narrowed, she misliked the way he kept looking to the raised portcullises which held back a smattering of lions and bears. 

In an instant, the man ceased to mean a damn thing at all to her. A battle cry roared out on her right, and she spun to face a man rushing at her head on. Lexa only managed to raise her blade halfway by the time his slammed downwards into hers. The shock wave jolted up her arm and into her shoulder.

She let out a startled cry and stumbled backwards a pace, hastily parrying a second blow. He was large and built like a bull, with wide shoulders and a square jaw and mean little eyes. His hair had been shaved away and a smattering of scars had disfigured the left side of his face. Bull-Man roared out again, and gathered his strength in a raised arm, preparing to strike again. Lexa's pulse was thundering in her ears as she jumped sideways, tucking into a roll and desperate to get out of the way. 

In the back of her mind she understood that the crowd was going berserk. Most of the other competitors in their little free-for-all had already been dispatched, and as their numbers dwindled spectators had begun to grow restless.  _This_ though, this one-on-one between a goliath and a woman, was what they had come to see. If she'd had time to look at the Game Master she would have found him smiling.

“Filthy barbarian bitch,” the man sneered as he rounded on her. 

“So speaks the slave,” she taunted back, loud enough for those in the closer rows to hear, and never mind that she herself had been pressed into this arena against her will. The citizens hooted and called out obscenities of their own. A roman-born slave was still looked upon with greater standing than a foreigner, apparently. 

He lunged forwards with a hasty stab, and Lexa grabbed his wrist. It was a quick movement, and by the time he realized what she had done Lexa had already spun into his stance and slipped her sword between a gap in his armor. She felt it's halting journey through his ribcage, heart, and a lung before being stopped by the boiled leather guarding his back. He shuddered and gasped, too stunned to react. A slow mind, Lexa noted, but she had been able to guess that already.

She ripped her sword back out and away, leaving a gaping wound in it's place. A bit of shiny intestine poked through, glistening in the heat and all too pink for the beige and rust world she had found herself in.

 

The Emperor’s Box – Midday – 115 A.D. 

 

Clarke paid no attention to the games. Her chin sat heavy in the palm of her hand, and she slumped against the cool marble barrier which kept them apart from the other patricians and  _nobilis_ . The silken awning above their heads held the sun at bay, and several slaves stood armed with fans, with which they created a constant breeze. Her mother paused in her lecture only long enough to accept a new glass of watered wine.

“I have no idea what to do with you, Clarke.” The exasperation was evident only in the tightness of her lips and the way her eyes flashed. Beyond that she smiled pleasantly and at least pretended to keep her eyes on the arena below, Gods forbid someone see them as anything less than pleasant and powerful.

“We could just stop talking about it.” Clarke ventured under her breath.

Her mother sucked a breath in through pursed lips and clenched her jaw. “You leave the domus in the middle of the day, to wander the streets, without  _any_ manner of protection, and you want us to stop talking about it?” Abby hissed. “If you were not my daughter I would have you whipped!”

Clarke closed her eyes and took a breath. Perhaps she ought to just give in...

Perhaps, if there were more to do in their cramped home; lavish by any means but small in comparison to their villa. Perhaps if she had not already drawn every corner of its interior. Perhaps if she had anyone worth talking too, beyond the mindless girls in her mother's service. Perhaps if the guards her father had picked out for her were not so taciturn, and not under orders to relay every little thing she did back to her mother's waiting ear. 

As it stood the girl saw their city home as more prison than refuge.

“Have you looked at Gaius lately? That bit of growth on his cheek, I simply cannot stand to look at him. Find me a more attractive gaoler and perhaps I'll bring him along next time.”

From the corner of her eye Clarke saw her mother's hand twitch and she wondered if the woman would dare to strike her in public. She was spared the suspense when the men in their box all sprung to their feet, cheering. The blonde sat up, startled, eyes drawn to the pit where one lone gladiator stood. The last time she'd bothered to pay any attention at all to the game there had been over a two dozen, and in the back of her mind she wondered how much time had passed. 

There was something odd about the warrior and it took her a moment before Clarke realized that this victor was in fact a  _woman_ . It was not unheard of for them to take part in the games, but more often than not the women in the arena had committed some crime and were dispatched quickly by beasts from the menagerie. They did not  _win,_ yet here this one stood coated in blood and viscera, holding the head of her final competitor, and  _glaring_ up at their place among the stands. 

Clarke frowned, impressed.

“That's what this is about?” Abby questioned her, seeming not to care about the ruckus.

Clarke hummed absently before looking over Thelonious and her father, who were leaning towards one another and talking animatedly about the match. Both men seemed not to notice the victorious woman's ill-will. 

Her mother's patience was at it's end. “Clarkavia Aurelia Griffin, I swear it, if you do not heed me this instant I will have you put to the lash!” 

Her tone had been raised to high, and a still fell over their small gathering. Even some of the wealthier citizens nearby froze in shock before realizing it would be better for them to play ignorant. Every eye was trained on either Abby or Clarke and heat burned in the young girl's cheeks, embarrassed for her mother's sake.

“What on earth are you going on about?” Her father asked at last. “Carrying on this way in front of-”

Her mother dipped her head, shamefaced, and would not meet Thelonious' eyes.

The darker skinned man was kind, thinking nothing of it, as was his way. “It is okay, Jakus.”

Clarke let out a breath. Her father was the Emperor’s advisor and lead architect, but all at once she remembered every lesson in decorum her mother had tried to teach her. Patience, respect, devotion,  _silence_ ...

“This is about Clarke's little misadventure earlier, isn't it?”

Down in the pit attendants had rushed out to begin clearing bodies away. Whoever owned the woman had also sent out a volley of medics to attend to what wounds they could. 

“She claims to mislike her guard,” Abby said in as light and pleasant a way as possible. 

Thelonious leaned towards Jake and raised a brow. “Hmm, the one with the bit of pox on him?”

Clarke dipped her head to hide a victorious smile, but her eyes found the unpleasant woman again instead. “What will be done with her?” she asked suddenly.

Abby stiffened at the sudden change in topic, perhaps thinking that Clarke was simply trying to change the topic of conversation, but Thelonious answered anyways.

“I expect she will be taken back by whomever purchased her and made ready for the next fight.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. Both understood that Clarke had already known the answer, she had been attending these games all her life. The odds that this strange woman would make her way out of slavery were slim, and after a show like that she would likely fight and fight and fight until she was killed.

Her hands balled up into fists. “Her.”

“What?” Abby questioned.

“Her, I would like her as my new personal guard.”

Her Mother's eyes bulged, and even her father fell back into his padded seat. The Emperor only quirked a brow and smiled at the antics of his best friend's family. He was not easily moved to strong emotion, this man. 

“Clarkavia, you cannot seriously expect-”

“I will follow your orders from this day on,” she swore hastily.

“She is a  _barbarian_ , likely some sort of murderer-”

“To the letter.”

“She cannot be trusted!”

“Then we can sell her back if she is unfit,” Clarke ventured, hoping it might sway her mother's mind. She watched as Abby's eyes flickered to Thelonious and back to her again, clearly unwilling to cause much more havoc than they already had. 

“I want to speak to this woman,” her father declared suddenly, and so the die was cast.

Thelonious snapped his fingers and a thin little man Clarke could not name stepped forwards.

 

Colosseum Barracks – Afternoon – 115 A.D. 

 

The wooden bench beneath her was rough hewn and uneven, pitching her forward at a slight angle, but still preferable to the floor. She slumped back against the wall. Every muscle in her body ached, and she was numb to the cacophony around her. Other slaves brawled with one another, some testing their strength and some with true aggravation. Others picked sullenly at their food, and some of the youngest were sobbing. There were times without fights, she had noticed, and times without food, but there never seemed to be a time without sobbing. 

Lexa's own food sat half eaten, the rest she'd considered trading off to someone else for a better pair of sandals. Those already committed to dying would probably favor a good meal over soon-to-be-useless raiment anyways. That and the fact that she did not trust the meat, anyways.

She looked down at her right bicep, which had been cleanly cut and since then well-bandaged. It throbbed, and she feared an infection may very well set in. Beyond that she had escaped mostly unharmed.

The space on the bench next to her creaked as depressed as someone sat down.

“A good fight,” the voice mumbled out.

She raised a brow at him and allowed a small smirk. “You expected something less, my friend?”

The older man chuckled and tugged at his beard, not bothering to say anything else on the matter. His uniform was torn and tattered, but she could still see a bit of the dye which had marked him as part of her army.

“How are the others, have you found them?”

He grunted, his face falling into something more solemn. “I have found many. These tyrants are clever, at least in that they know fighting spirit when they see it. Most of our warriors are here in these pits somewhere. The mothers and children, though...” He only shook his head.

“We will find a way out of this,” Lexa intoned, voice barely more than a whisper. It was not in her nature to give up hope, but she would admit the odds were stacked against them.

The Roman army had swept into their camp in the middle of the night, after spending the better part of a month backing her army into a river valley. Weak, running low on supplies, and already driven from their homeland they had cowered on the banks and wondered option was left to them. Their war had been long and hard fought, and while Lexa would always be proud of her own warriors, in the end the superior numbers of the Roman army brought about the end of things. She had surrendered, lest her people be wiped out entirely.

“As you say, commander,” Gustus murmured. 

Both slaves looked up to see a wide-eyed man in out of place finery, backed on either side by two brutal looking men, approaching their bench. His guards were armed to the teeth, and their weapons certainly were not tarnished with rust. Lexa's eyes narrowed, part suspicion and part malice.

“You there,” he said, gesturing to Lexa, “are to follow me.”

She hesitated. Only a breath of time passed before the man on his left stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of her hair, dragging her to her feet. She yelped and winced, hands grasping like talons at the exposed flesh of his forearm. She felt her nails dig in for a moment only before the back of his hand crashed against her cheek.

“If I were not under orders I would have you killed for that,” the man said, his voice shaky and face as pale as milk. Lexa guessed, through the pounding in her head, that he was unaccustomed to running errands such as these. She saw that Gustus had raised himself halfway up from the bench, and that his hand had fallen to where his own sword belt should have been. She flicked a hand at him, praying he would not make a scene. 

“Good thing you're under orders then,” she said, though her voice was weaker than she might have liked. Blood dripped from her split lip, and from where her teeth had cut into the flesh of her mouth. She put some iron in her spine and stood up straight, restraining a wince as her muscles cried out in protest.

The man wavered for a moment, wondering if he ought to inflict some further damage. In his world slaves were meek and obedient; he had never spared a glance for these savage gladiators... But when the Emperor says 'fetch' you say 'whom.' He let out a small sigh and turned on his heel. The two men laid rough hands on Lexa's shoulders and steered her in his wake. 

She wondered absently where they were headed, and if it would possible be worse than where she had come from. At the forefront of her mind she thought of Gustus, and Indra, and all of the others she was being force leave behind. She considered putting up a fight, testing how far this man's 'orders' would protect her, but the risk was too great. She spared Gustus one last glance over her shoulder and gave him a meaningful look. 

She would be back.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke is devious, and Lexa is lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently this is going to have more chapters! Please direct your thanks to a certain anonymous person who has given me wonderful incentive (:

Clarke's Chambers – Evening – 115 A.D.

 

Many thought Clarke's family was up-jumped by the Emperor's favor. Perhaps they were not wrong, but no one could say they had not done well for themselves in the meantime. Her father was sponsored handsomely to bring new wonders to the city and outlying villages, and her mother was wise with investments. Long before Clarke was born they had built up a small empire in their own right, be it a fleet of slaves or the race horses her father so favored. By the time she arrived they had every semblance of an old and ancient name; regard, wealth and all that came with it. She grew up amidst feasts and festivals and the blood games.

But, even so, she heard the whispers and understood what it meant.

She had heard all manner of outlandish tales, be it that her father had actually been born a slave, that her mother was a Greek whore taken in conquest, that she herself was the product of adultery. Clarke knew well enough that in this place power was everything, and the only thing that made a man strong was the weakness of his enemies.

So in her leisure time Clarke had set herself to that task.

It was unsavory perhaps, and she did not relish in it, but protecting her family overshadowed any cost. After a bit of practice she realized that she was actually quite adept with it. Micromanaging gossip was one thing, siphoning out a bit of her weekly allowance towards sneaks and pickpockets was another. She had made good friends with information brokers in the city, but to have them show up at her family's domus would mean the end of everything she had worked for, which meant leaving their home undetected was of paramount importance.

Her slip-up earlier in the week had nearly cost her everything.

At the moment she paced the length of her chambers, thinking. The quarters were well furnished, but bland in comparison to her parent's. The room held only her bed, a desk for writing, a small table with cushions to take meals on, and a smattering of plants. Her floors were tiled with dark marble and covered in plush rugs, imported from the far east. Six pillars lined the length of the room, and were made of the same marble as her flooring. Her thin sandals made a faint 'thwap'ing sound wherever they struck, but she hardly noticed.

What in Pluto's name was she going to do with the gladiator?

After the heat of the moment had passed Clarke realized that perhaps she had made a truly ignorant mistake. To begin with, her mother insisted that the purchase of the woman come out of her own pocket, which had bankrupted Clarke for the next month and a half. Beyond any monetary inconvenience, Clarke knew _nothing_ about her other than that she was deadly and seemed to have a distaste for Roman nobility.

A small laugh bubbled up from her chest, able to find humor in her own idiocy.

A knock on her thin door pulled her out of her thoughts. “Yes?” she called out.

She heard a hushed voice mutter, “Domina,” from the other side.

To most of the house's serving staff she was 'filia' or Clarke to those with some standing. To a very select few she was master. She crossed the space between them in a few terse steps before cracking the door a hair. The girl beyond had honey colored skin and dark hair. She was thin of frame and wore a roughspun wool tonic without ornamentation.

“Adria,” Clarke addressed her with a smile. She opened the door wider by only a fraction, peering into the walkway behind. They were alone. She stepped aside and ushered the girl in. “What news?”

Adria took a deep breath before beginning to speak, keeping her eyes on the floor below her all the while. “She is of the Rugii people. They initiated contact early last year with Legatus Tacitus during his spring advance. His men were unable to learn much about them other than what previous encounters provided.”

“That being?” Clarke pressed. She had since walked over to her desk, and was running her fingers along the woodgrain. The Rugii. If memory served, their people lived beside the Mare Suebicum, adjacent to the Goths. Likely a warring people, and true barbarians.

Adria said nothing that surprised her. “Proficient in acts of war, but few in number. They were able to stand their own for a time, but when the season turned their resources failed. Tacitus' men accepted surrender and those fit were brought here to Rome.”

Clarke hummed. She had been hoping for more. “Send one of the boys down to the pits. Have him feign a buyers interest in all other Rugii brought in with her. I would know more of how many of her people reside here, and the sort of men they are.”

“Domina?” the girl questioned in a small voice.

By this point Clarke expected the woman to be difficult. It never hurt to have a bargaining chip. “I want to know more of her culture. And if it so happens that she has a lover in the pits, children or siblings, they might prove useful in securing her cooperation. If that is all, you may go.” Clarke gave the younger woman a tight lipped smile, and Adria knew better than to push. Information was power, and Clarke was not interested in being questioned too deeply.

The girl gave a small bow. “Yes, Domina.” Clarke watched her hasty retreat with a small frown. It was important to her to be on good terms with those in her employ, but she knew better than to call them friends. The young servants who attended her did so with Clarke's word that after five years of loyal and, most importantly, _discrete_ service they would be given their freedom. This was not an arrangement of fondness, but one of necessity on both sides.

Clarke slid her hand under the flat of the desk, running her fingers along it's smooth expanse until they bumped against a small divot. She pressed up and in, sliding back the opening to a hidden compartment. It offered no more space than what might hold two dozen sheets of paper, but it was enough. She sat down and began going over the week's reports.

 

Griffin Domus – Evening – 115 A.D.

 

 _Well,_ Lexa thought bitterly, _Its better than the barracks beneath the pit._ Still though, to be bought and sold like cattle had put her in a foul mood. She had stood there and listened as two men argued over her price, laying out her faults and commendations like she was no more than an item... It was disgusting. It had taken everything in her power not to snap their thin, chicken necks.

After an appropriate sum had been ascertained they'd passed her off to a new pair of guards and led her through the city. She watched with growing curiosity as the districts grew cleaner and brighter, and berated herself for not paying more attention to what was said. She was letting her anger get the better of her at the cost of her senses. A level-headed Lexa would have tried to glean every possible drop of information from her buyer, but instead she had stood there scowling, too furious to think straight. Now, she was at a disadvantage.

Finally she was stopped before broad double doors. They were painted a rusty ochre color, and well matched to the embellishments surrounding the house. The house- (she wracked her brain for the word the romans would use. Dom? Dom-something?) spanned an entire city block. A lean looking man was waiting for her on the steps which led to the main doors.

“This is her?” he said, tone light as if he found something about this situation humorous.

Lexa knew that she was battered and filthy, but surely she did not look quite so pathetic. She did not scowl though, only sighed. The man was taller than she by several inches, and while his linen tunic covered his arms, he cut a lean figure and she assumed he was quite fit. He was tanned and worn, a working man, dark hair and eyes, and likely no true member of the household that had... _purchased_ , her.

“All yours, Bellamy,” one of her guards joked with a laugh. “Good luck.”

“Maybe I won't need it,” he said in a similar tone. Was this all just a jest for them? “After all, she's just been plucked out of the fighting pits. She's not bound for a mine or a whorehouse, and our young filia has her mind set on keeping her hale and healthy. Perhaps if she realizes how lucky she is, she will not make too much of a fuss.”

As his speech wore, the man had turned her way. It became clear, his eyes locked on hers, that the words were not intended for her companions. Lexa leveled her gaze at him, trying to keep the slate clean, but she was uncertain if the spark of her recently-quelled anger would show through. She was to be no _filia's_ pet. Even as she thought the word in her mind, it was laced with scorn.

Bellamy laughed again, a dry chuckle. “I suppose time will tell. Come, then. The grand tour awaits.”

She was led into the domus, and tried her best not of ogle at the obvious display of opulence. Roman wealth had always disgusted her to some degree, but this was like nothing she'd considered. The floors were tiled with marble blocks, smooth and level. A small room led into an open, cavernous space, square in nature and in it's very center open to the sky. Below lay a shallow pool, from which a pair of young girl's in drab tunics were drawing water. The walls were adorned with bits of fabric, paintings, and statues. Couches sat against the walls.

The man led her left down a wide hall, which opened into another space. This too was open to the sky, but below was a simple garden. Low shrubs surrounded paths, patches of flowers grew in the sandy soil. It smelled heady, and was all too warm for her liking. Beyond that yet were several chambers, which Bellamy labeled in no great detail.

“Bathhouse. Storehouse. Kitchen,” he said at last, gesturing to two thin doors left open, leading to an enclosed patio dominated by a wood burning oven, tables mounded with vegetables, and a mob of fast moving slaves. Bushels of grain sat by the wayside.

“You'll sleep where you work,” Bellamy said. “Filia will dictate that to you. Most likely it will be near or in her chamber, which is here.” He gestured to the door but didn't bother making their presence known.

Lexa didn't bother questioning him, she got the sense that he was trying to draw something out of her, waiting for any excuse to discipline her. They all had to learn sometime, right? She didn't hold it against the man, and if it was him against her, she was confident she'd be able to hold her own. Only it wasn't him against her, it was him and every other armed man in the house, every soldier in the city, every roman citizen who would be more than happy to collect a reward for putting down a disobedient slave. She grit her teeth.

Bellamy went on. “Tonight? You will sleep in the kitchen. Cook has been ordered to give you a meal, and tomorrow morning you will bring Filia her breakfast. Understood?”

Lexa nodded.

There was something in his eyes, but she did not know him well enough to name it. Perhaps he was pensive, or perhaps just somewhat amused. Either way he chuckled and mumbled, “We all know what you did in the arena. Don't think we've forgotten. One toe out of line and it will all end for you.”

Lexa nodded.

Bellamy sighed and sent a plaintive look skyward, as if appealing his false gods. “Like talking to a plank.” He turned on his heel and walked away. Lexa could only assume that it meant she was dismissed.

He had left her beside the double doors which led out to the street.

She stared at them, the painted wood, ornate and carved and so very clean. The want to burst through them and disappear into the city was gnawing at her stomach, and for a breath her weight shifted to carry her forward. For a breath she was going to do just that only... What then? It would not free her people from the chains and cells in this vile city's underbelly. It would not put meals in their stomachs or get them home. It would only free herself.

She turned instead towards the kitchen, each step weighing at her as if the soles of her sandals were made from lead. Much of the house had already retired for the night, but not this room. Part of it was house indoors, but much of the bulk of it could be found in an open courtyard. A flock of women bustled here and there, hefting this and that. A young girl labored under the weight of a pail of water, and an elderly woman with gnarled knuckles sat working dough for the flat bread romans seemed to favor.

Everything stopped when she walked over the threshold.

Lexa did not fear being ostracized. Even as Heda she was always a step apart from her people, in some distant place of hard choices and sacrifice. She went there now, in her mind, so that she might get what she required of the mindless hens.

“I've been bid to sleep here for the night.”

They stared at her with wide, blank eyes, and she began to grow frustrated.

When she spoke again, there was iron in her voice. “Who here leads you?”

Though no one spoke, all eyes flit to the old woman kneading her bread. She had not stopped her work through the tremendous silence, or even once paused. Under her breath she hummed a tune Lexa was not familiar with, and the girl noticed streaks of flour across her cheeks, and bits of dough in her wispy grey hair. Her skin was brown and weathered, her tunic worn thin. Lexa crossed the space in several short strides.

She towered over the woman's workspace, and knew she made quite the sight. She could still feel blood crusted on her face. “I have need of your assistance, Grandmother.”

“So formal,” the woman spoke. Her voice was lighter and more delicate than Lexa would have guessed. “You need not be.”

Lexa rankled, fingers curling into fists. She was not used to being scolded, as if this woman knew anything about who she was or what was at stake.

The elder sighed. “Somehow I have offended you. Prickly, hm? Sit down, girl.”

“I am not a-”

“Sit.”

Despite the open air, the atmosphere thickened. Lexa felt the gaze of every other slave girl in that room boring into her back. Still the woman would not look at her, still she worked her dough over and over and over. If she was vain, so be it, but Lexa had never tolerated such impertinence in her short life. Did this woman have no manners at all, ignoring a question when she was addressed. The moment was growing potent, and Lexa got the sense that she was on the cusp of something important.

She sat, and the world seemed to let go of it's held breath.

“There. Not so hard to sit,” the woman remarked. She looked up, and locked Lexa in a pair of brilliantly blue eyes. They were hard, melded with steel and bloodshot. Her face was worn with lines upon lines, scars, blemishes, and the residue of her work. Her nose was too flat for traditional beauty and she could not have been a day younger than sixty, but her jaw was square and set and without a single word Lexa felt like a scolded child.

“I know who you were,” the woman said at last, after allowing her own eyes to scour every inch of Lexa's face. “The pit fighter. Yes, we have all heard. A Rugii warrior, captured and brought to die. Ferocious, indomitable, possessed with powers beyond those of any mere mortal. In the streets they call you a demigod, or on the tongues of the truly inebriated, Mars himself.”

Lexa felt as if she was being mocked, and color began to rise in her cheeks.

The woman leaned across the space between them, and whispered as if sharing some great secret. “But do you know what you are to me? Furniture. Just as I am furniture. Just as Maya and Ada and Bendetta are pieces of furniture. To the Romans, we are nothing but chairs and tables and spindles and looms.”

“Bellamy has already-” She began to speak, her voice laced with ice and daggers, but she was cut off.

“Oh _yes_ , I hear the rage. The indignation. Yes, Bellamy may have told you but you did not listen. And until you are ready to let go of your pride you are not welcome here. I will not waste food on someone who will have themselves killed within the week.” It was as much of a dismissal as Lexa had ever received. It bit at her like bile in the back of her throat, and she tried without success to swallow it down.

“I am no... No rug! I will not be walked upon by anyone,” she hissed.

“That is not my problem,” her grouchy companion snipped. “I'm sure you will work it out in time. Until then, if you were told to sleep in this kitchen it is not my place to turn you away. Do you have ought to make yourself a pallet?”

The thought made Lexa mood sour even further. She shook her head.

“Shame, that.” The woman stood, slowly and with great care for her joints. Two other girls moved forward to help her, while two more yet began to portion out her dough for loaves. At once the kitchen fell back into working order, and it was as if Lexa did not even exist.  


End file.
